“Then I will,” Grace said, and hung up the phone.

We hurried back down to the lobby, the cold air hitting us as we pushed through the heavy glass doors.

The rain had turned into a steady, gray drizzle.

Our driver was waiting at the curb, the engine idling.

As we climbed into the back seat, my phone buzzed again.

It was a text message from an unknown number.

I opened it, my thumb trembling on the screen.

It was a photograph of the street outside my apartment building, taken from inside a parked car.

Below the photo was a short message: *I know you aren’t there, Vivian. But I know where the lawyer’s office is. Bring my daughter to the office, or I will make sure you never see a dime of the Whitmore estate.*

I showed the screen to Grace, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“He is desperate,” Grace said, staring at the screen. “He doesn’t realize the money is already gone.”

“He’s going to your office,” I said, my voice cracking. “Grace, he’s waiting for us.”